


Confessions of a Sociopath

by The_Hybrid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, sher
Genre: Angst, Cute, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-01 13:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12706407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Hybrid/pseuds/The_Hybrid
Summary: Sherlock works through his feelings for John. But will John find out?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HI! Yeah, not posted in absolutely ages. Sorry about that. NEW FIC. Yay?! Post S4, kinda fix-it, kinda GIVE ME JOHNLOCK. AND OTHER GAYNESS
> 
> And I actually have a beta this time. All my thanks to Hunts for reading this through and giving it the seal of approval.

 

Sherlock looked around the living room of 221B, truly seeing the room for the first time in months. Ever since John had cut him out of his life, Sherlock just couldn't bear to look around, to see all of the little remnants of John, or the ghosts of conversations well past. A scratch on the table from a fight with an Arabian, the talking to that was so _John_ in it's delivery, Sherlock made sure he never damaged anything again (or at least _tried_ to. Well, it was never on purpose, anyway). The discoloured glass of the fridge shelf from one too many blood spillages, and yet another lecture on health and contaminants (“Yes John, I know how bacteria are spread. And yes, I know all of the bacteria a body part carries.” “Then _WHY_ aren't you more careful? I do not want to get ill because you have no concept of cleanliness. I work in a doctor's surgery for goodness sake!” “So you're in contact with things well worse than the contents of that fridge” “But cancerous livers, Sherlock? Why cancerous livers? Actually, I don't want to know. I'm buying you a mini fridge for Christmas. I'll go halves with Greg.” “It'll be cleared up by the time you get back from your night out with the Greg fellow!”). And of course, the chair. The chair that was always John's. That was a reminder of what he'd lost when John had left for Mary, when he'd gotten rid of it, and now a homage to the friendship he'd broken when he failed to save his best friend's wife. Sat there afterwards, just in case John decided to come back.

 

 Now it sits there, empty of a Doctor, but not of a Watson. Sherlock underwent his usual routine he did during little Rosie's 2pm nap, and collected the toys from all over the floor. He put them away in their little box, a wooden chest with skulls and crossbones all over it. He'd never admit to John that Mummy had sent it up to him when she'd found out about Mary's pregnancy, nor that it was his “favourite toy” box as a child. He glanced at the clock again. 2:33. Rosie would be waking up soon. He had just enough time for a cup of tea before she awoke and he'd have to battle with her for her bath (a task that in concept, should take about twenty minutes. Not the hour Sherlock had come to expect).

 

 As Sherlock was finishing the last of his tea, he heard the increasing gurgles that signified the increasing consciousness of the smallest (yet loudest) person Sherlock knew. He rose from his stool next to the blood samples he was working on to tend to her before she realised she was alone (and before she started protesting to that fact loud enough to wake up Magnussen from the dead).

 

“Hey you, little one. Hiya. Yes you.” Sherlock smiled at the wide eyes that looked at him from the seat of the chair. “Come on Little Watson. It's bath time. Yes it is, isn't it? Are you going to be good for Sherlock today?” He put her down on a towel on the floor of the bathroom. The bath was already run, but Sherlock answered the question almost to himself as he walked out to find the duck she always wanted “No, I don't suppose you will be, will you. Hm, only someone that adorable would be able to get away with everything you do, isn't that so, Little One? Now, where is Ducky? Here ducky ducky. Here ducky duck-”

 

“Are you looking for this anatomically inaccurate _orange_ silicone bath-toy, dear Brother? I thought you'd grown out of such childish tirades as this.”

 

“Yes I am, thank you.” Sherlock snatched the toy. “What do you want, Mycroft. If you haven't noticed, I'm busy.”

 

“Looking for a toy is hardly being busy, Sherlock.”

 

“I'm not -” A wailing from the bathroom interrupted him. “See? Busy. So if you must continue annoying me, at least allow me to attend to child that I'm pretty sure has more brain cells that half of your staff.”I Sherlock stalked off, smirking at the look of shock Mycroft had on his face at hearing Rosie's cries.

 

“It's actually this I wanted to talk about. How is John holding up? He's been through a lot, after all.”

 

“He's fine, Mycroft.” He didn't reply, which in itself was an answer. “Okay, he's not okay. How could he be? John's not okay. I'm not okay. Hell, even you're not okay. How can we be okay, Brother? A sister. I have a sister and you never told me. I know, alright? I know I deleted her and you thought it would be better if I never found out. But we could have helped. _I_ could have helped her. She nearly killed John. John, Mycroft. You know why, as well. If I'd have known, maybe I'd have been able to stop it.” Sherlock looked behind him at Mycroft, and looked into his brother's eyes, hoping he'd be able to convey everything he wasn't saying from body cues alone.

 

“Very well. Duly noted. Brother, do tell me if I ever need to re-continue the surveillance I had on Doctor Watson after we faked your death. I would hate to see the child given to the government.”

 

“I will do. But that's not needed currently, thank you. You may leave now.”

 

Mycroft swiftly turned from the bathroom and made his way out of the flat, stopping just before he reached the door. Staying where he was, he turned around to face the way of the bathroom, and raised his voice just loud enough to be sure Sherlock would be able to hear him over the sound a bathing toddler makes. “You should tell John, Sherlock. Or you may well lose him again.” When Mycroft was sure he'd receive no reply, he walked out of the door of 221B, and into the black car waiting outside.

 

After he heard the click of the latch that signalled Mycroft's departure, Sherlock sighed into the steam of the bathroom. “But how do I tell him? How does one go about admitting their love?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to tell John how he feels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, those who know my work (apart from knowing I take ages to post and never stick to a timetable), know that I've done a whole series of letters from River Song to the Doctor. I was re-reading some of my stuff and decided I wanted to continue doing things like that, so, here you are I suppose. Chapter twoo

 

John came to collect Rosie at 6pm, just after his shift at the surgery had ended. While the two of them now got along much better than they had just after Mary had died, John still harboured residual anger towards Sherlock (he knew it was unfounded, but he'd spent so long blaming Sherlock he didn't know how to stop), and so he hadn't yet moved back into 221B. He was planning on asking soon, but also wanted Sherlock to get used to Rosie again, and now that the 10 month old was beginning to have her own personality, for Rosie to learn, and accept, Sherlock.

Sherlock was unusually quiet and reserved when John came to collect Rosie. He was often silent when John used to live with him, but now when he was looking after Rosie he usually appeared very active and constantly talked, if only to appease the baby. Today, however, Sherlock was silent and moved only to convince Rosie he was still there and to keep her entertained with the toys strewn across the floor (Sherlock's tidying only ever lasted about an hour after the infant awoke).

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked when he was passed Rosie and her connected belongings.

 “Hm? Yes John. Fine. Just thinking. She's been very well behaved today, don't worry. Although she shares my opinions of my brother, so take that how you will. I'm very happy about it, but I assume you'd want her to be more accepting of others.” Sherlock replied, hardly concentrating.

Mycroft had been over. That explained the change in behaviour. “Oh, alright then. And ignore Mycroft, Sherlock. He only wants to get a rise out of you.” John checked he had everything and walked towards the door. “Well, thank you anyway. I'm not at work tomorrow so I've no need for you to look after her. You can get back to whatever experiment you've been doing lately.” John tried a smile in Sherlock's direction.

“Experiment? Oh, yeah. That. Thanks.” Sherlock looked up and returned the smile, fleetingly, when he saw it. “You're more than welcome to come over tomorrow if you'd like. I'm not doing anything dangerous, so Rosie will be safe.”

“I might do, thank you. See you then.” And with that, John walked out of the flat, sleepy baby in tow.

 

 When John left, Sherlock went into his bedroom and picked up an envelope, a pad of paper and a pen, then sat down on the sofa next to the coffee table. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began to write.

 

_Dear John,_

_I hope you never read this, but if you do, the first thing I want you to know is that while this is literally a “Dear John” letter, it isn't one in the sense that people usually talk about them. Quite the opposite really._

_There's quite a lot I want to tell you, but I think most of it would be more appropriate at a different time. I suppose writing this isn't exactly telling you per say, but it's close enough. Besides, I could never tell you any of this to your face, I could never risk losing you again. It hurt so much last time._

_First of all, I want to tell you I forgive you. I know you still blame yourself for everything that happened after Mary's death, and I want to tell you it's okay. I deserved everything you did to me, and it was, indeed, my fault. Although it was not I who pulled the trigger, Mary died to save my life, and ergo I killed her. I swore to you both on your wedding day that I would protect you until such a time as I am no longer around. Instead, it was she who protected me. So not only am I the reason the love of your life is dead, I also lied to you in the process. I will never forgive myself for that, and I do not expect you to either. If it weren't for me, you would still be enjoying your life with a child and a wife, and I only interfered with that._

_Secondly, I want to tell you that you'll always be welcome at Baker Street, and that it never stopped being your home, not to me, anyway. I know you have your own house that you lived in with Mary, and I know that Baker Street will never be a place for a young child, but I need you to know that you'll always be welcome here. That Rosie will always be welcome here, and should you need it, I'd leave this flat for you in a millisecond._

_Finally (as this letter is really long enough, let's be honest), I want to tell you that I miss you terribly. There is an empty space in this apartment that no amount of experiments or cases will ever fill. I never really realised just how much I cared about you until my time away, and by then it was too late. I came back to a different John Watson to the one I met five years ago, and to the one I left three years ago. After the horribleness with Magnussen, Mycroft sent me on a mission. I told you it would be over in six months, and I wasn't lying, although I never did say quite the truth. That mission would last six months because by that time, I would surely be dead. I boarded that plane knowing it would be the end of my life, and my only regret was leaving you. You see, you were the only one I ever really cared about what happened to you. It was you that kept me sane over these last years, and I care for you absolutely._

_I've been living on borrowed time twice now, and this time I wish it were different. This time I wish I was stronger. But I'm not, so I'll leave this somewhere safe, somewhere you'll never find it. Because I don't know what I'd do if you did find it. I don't think I'd be able to stop myself saying the things I should have said years ago._

_Forever your genius,_

_Sherlock._

 

 Sherlock ripped off and folded the two pieces of paper with great care and with a gentleness usually reserved only for experiments, placed them inside the envelope, and with his usual cursive writing, scrawled “For Doctor Watson” on the front.

 Walking back to his room, Sherlock replaced the pen and pad back to their original position next to his bed (an prime material, key for any late night deductions that may need writing down for translation for Lestrade), and took out an old Chinese puzzle box Mummy had got for him for his fourth birthday (he'd solved it almost immediately, but when he realised it kept things hidden and inaccessible for his parents, he'd decided to keep it). Following the intricate and complex instructions he'd memorised to get into the box, he reverently placed the envelope inside, discarding the 7% solution and old packet of cigarettes he kept in there before. He no longer had any use for them, after all.

That night Sherlock tried to continue with some experiments he'd been working on, but soon gave up after making a few too many calculation mistakes. Instead he laid on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, and tried not to think of the letter in the back of his wardrobe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? Not totally abhorrent I hope. I love to hear from you, so comment and kudos :)

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's it for now. Did you like it? What do you want to happen? Any glaringly obvious spelling mistakes? Comment and Kudos if you liked it.


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